Hidden
by nonsequiturvy
Summary: Robin doesn't think anything of it at first, when she slips away for an hour or two at a time after supper, but it turns out these late night meetings are not the only thing she's hiding from him. Sequel to Kleptomania.


**A/N: **Happy belated birthday to **Miss Poisonous**!

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><p><em>Hidden<em>

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><p>Robin doesn't think anything of it at first, when she slips away for an hour or two at a time after supper has been cleared from the table and the dishes are sparkling in their cupboards once more.<p>

"I'm just heading out to meet some people," Regina tells him with a swift kiss to the temple, a brief caress of her hand down the side of his neck, "town business," before gathering her bag from the counter and her keys from the hook by the door. "Don't forget to help Roland with his project while I'm gone."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," he responds dourly, casting a dubious eye to the fireplace where said "project" has taken up current residence. The Fabergé egg that Roland had unwittingly stolen from Mr. Gold once upon a time has mysteriously achieved twice its original size ever since Regina had helped him relocate it there. (Robin also suspects that whatever she and his boy had been up to in her study for the preceding weeks, with brightly colored smoke emitting from behind closed doors every time he happened to pass them by, has something to do with this miraculous transformation as well.)

They won't disclose to him exactly what he's helping _with_ as far as this egg is concerned, and when he chances to ask Henry about it, the lad looks positively giddy but remains steadfastly mum, which only disconcerts him further. Nevertheless, he has the distinct feeling that there's something unquestionably _alive _about it, something that has grown rather active of late, rattling the egg in its copper kettle and causing quite a racket with little regard for the hour or the sleep he's most assuredly _not _getting when he stays up that night, waiting for Regina to come home.

He's just started to doze off on the couch again at a quarter past two, after waking briefly to stoke the fire, and it's significantly later than he's grown accustomed to when he feels the cushions dip beneath her weight as she settles in behind him. He murmurs a drowsy "love you," hands tightening around the arms she's encircled at his waist, drawing her closer, enveloping his back in her warmth. She presses a kiss to his neck, and his last thought before sleep finally pulls him under is that something smells faintly of incense, ash and spiced rum.

.

.

.

She doesn't mention her meeting the following morning and it doesn't occur to him to ask, as preoccupied as he is with ensuring that breakfast don't burn and the coffee doesn't get too cold while her hands slip under his Henley and roam across his skin.

"Regina," he warns playfully as they slide slowly, purposely down his sides and drag along his hipbones, "Unless you want the boys to be scraping char off their plates, I strongly suggest you keep those hands where I can see—ah—"

"Maybe you should learn to multitask," she says, all throaty, lips against his shoulder, but her hands show him mercy, and just in time, too, as footsteps shuffle outside the kitchen archway.

"I think something's burning," Henry announces as he ambles in, still half-drunk off sleep and trying to rub it from his eyes, but the sight of his mother canoodling in the kitchen seems to do the trick for him and he's making a face as he gives them a wide berth, reaching round to grab a piece of toast straight off the stove. He takes a large crispy bite, chews thoughtfully before declaring, "Yup. Definitely burned."

Regina smacks him lightly with a nearby dishtowel and he smirks at her before shrugging and shoveling down the rest of his toast in one graceless mouthful. He turns his head toward the direction of the staircase on the other side of the wall, about to call Roland down to breakfast (or what's left of it), when Regina gives him a single look, because the last thing this kitchen needs is for him to spew crumbs all over the floor. She bumps Robin out of the way with her hip, instructing him to fetch Roland instead and then tend to the coffee, before she salvages what's left of the bacon and toast.

.

.

.

He assumes it's the Charming trifecta who's monopolizing increasing amounts of Regina's time with these late-night "town business" meetings; after all, Rumplestiltskin has grown steadily more volatile ever since Belle's discovery of the fake dagger, and being that the man is technically Henry's grandfather, Robin reasons that the Charmings are hardly ones to shy away from such dilemmas once "town business" becomes "family business."

However, later that evening as he's taking the boys on a jaunt through the grocery store, debating which flavor of ice cream will go best with the movie Roland has selected (something entitled _Frozen_ that they procured from this magical contraception called a "Redbox"), he runs into none other than Emma.

"Sheriff Swan," he greets formally with a courteous nod.

"Deputy Locksley," she responds in kind, and then ruins the moment with a ladylike snort and a "How's it going, Robin? God, I feel like I should curtsy or something every time you say it like that," as she hefts her shopping basket from one arm to the other. It's full of what looks to be an assortment of various home remedies for the common cold, with no fewer than three types of throat lozenges and about twice as many teas.

"Are you feeling ill?" he asks, concerned, though she'd seemed to be in perfectly good health last he saw her down at the sheriff's department that afternoon.

"No, not me," Emma replies hastily. "These are for Mary Mar—Mom. She thinks she's been coming down with something." The blonde leans in conspiratorially. "And _I_ think she's already given it to Dad." She shakes her head, rolls her eyes. "And I thought babies were supposed to be the germ bags."

"Ah," says Robin with a sympathetic smile. "Speaking of, how is the little one doing with his parents so under the weather?"

As if in answer, a high-pitched garble of a baby cry comes from the next aisle over, with the TV dinners and frozen burritos. "Shit!" Emma curses, eyes going round as saucers as she takes off around the corner. Robin stoops to collect the boxes of tea that have come tumbling to the floor from her basket. He hears her on the other side of the pies and cheesecakes, owned by some woman named Sara Lee, as she calls, "Neal? Neal—oh, hey buddy!"

"Hi Emma!" comes Roland's enthusiastic little voice, and Robin realizes belatedly he's standing alone amongst the ice creams now, and that apparently Emma's not the only one who can't keep track of the whereabouts of her little one this evening. (Granted, Roland can freely move himself around on his own two legs, whereas Neal is but a year old, and thus still bound both by stroller wheels and the whims of other people's steering capabilities.)

"Did I just hear Mom?" Henry emerges from one of the dry foods sections, arms laden with several kinds of popcorn in addition to a variety of different seasonings for said popcorn (he takes after one of his mothers in that way, Robin notes wryly). They make their way over to Emma together, where she hovers over her baby brother, sounding panicked and apologetic.

"What did you do?" Henry asks curiously, then adds "Hey Uncle Neal," rather unnecessarily, to the baby blinking tearily up at him from under the hood of the stroller. "That's never not going to be weird, by the way," earning a pointed eyebrow from his mother.

"It's true," he turns to insist to Robin, who finds himself at an awkward push and pull where he really ought to act more fatherly toward the boy; but they have both been at such a domestic loss with Regina's recent prolonged absences that they've more or less banded together, comrades in arms, and he's not quite sure what to say so he chooses the next best thing, which is to say nothing at all. Leave the parenting bit up to Emma.

But of course, Emma would be the first to say that she's doing a less than stellar job of it herself. "I just left him here, by himself," she's aghast, "and, I mean, I was only going to be gone for a _second_, but then—" Her shoulders sag, her mouth pinched into a tight frown, and she looks uncharacteristically frazzled, just seconds away from tugging her hair out. Robin hums sympathetically as Henry gives her a gentle pat on the back, the living proof that she is a mother in every sense of the word, even if she's never known the hardship of raising a child on her own before.

"It happens to the best of us, Emma, trust me," Robin tells her, but she seems minimally reassured. Finally, "Why don't you and Neal come over after you've dropped by your parents' place?" he suggests kindly, and she's looking at him with immense gratitude even as she responds with a downturned brow and a _Really? You sure?_

"Absolutely," he affirms. "Regina is out again tonight, on some town business that's been taking up quite a bit of her time, so it's just me, Roland, Henry, and—" he consults the cover of the DVD he's balancing along with the jasmine and earl grey teas, "—Princesses Anna, and…Elsa."

"Charming," Emma says drily, then adds almost as an afterthought, "Killian has been gone a lot too. Every night for the past week, actually. Can't seem to catch the guy alone anymore." She shrugs. "I think having the kid around makes him nervous. It's not like I'm trying to give him any ideas." She looks slightly green at the very thought of it herself.

Odd, thinks Robin, because what business would Regina have with Hook that she didn't find fit to tell him about? Perhaps it is mere coincidence, but if Regina isn't meeting with the Charmings either, then who…?

As he ponders this, Emma is nodding with an enthusiastic "Definitely," agreeing to whatever Roland has just suggested to her along with an emphatic tug on her sleeve. "And hey, you can show me how your project's going!"

Now how the hell is he apparently the last to know what's been brewing in his own fireplace, Robin wonders with a sigh, as Henry helpfully takes the basket full of ice cream from him. They head to the cash register, where Leroy promptly starts grumping about how his invitation to the _Frozen _viewing party must have gotten lost in the mail.

.

.

.

Halfway through their second pint of rocky road and yet another melodious rendition about building snowmen, Robin finds himself nodding off again, despite the loud commentary Henry and Emma are providing about the virtues of having a reindeer as a pet.

The conversation takes another turn just as Robin finally decides not to fight his drooping eyelids any longer, with Emma turning to Roland and whispering to him while pointing at the fireplace, "So, what do you think you'll want to call it?"

"Norbert!" Roland exclaims, followed by a muttered "duh…" under his breath, and Robin opens a bleary eye to give him a quelling look for his impertinent tone of voice. But Emma brushes it off, asking him next something about the timing of—

Wait. Name _what_ Norbert?

His back is tense, stiffening, fully awake now, when the rattling from the fireplace that he's more or less grown used to suddenly gives a tremendous lurch and knocks its kettle clean off the hinges that have kept it elevated above the fire. Robin staggers to his feet from the couch in a state of shock as the kettle capsizes and bounces once off the brick hearth, sending tiny blazes of orange sparks every which way. The Fabergé egg, absolutely enormous now, rolls out and across the carpet, coming to a halt at Roland's feet.

"It's happening!" the boy shouts happily, clapping his hands together. Sharing his enthusiasm, the egg emits a loud explosive sound, sending four pairs of wide eyes downward—and one very upset baby into a babbling fit—as a large crack appears through the middle and spreads.

"Umm," says Henry, "I was kind of hoping Mom would be home for this when it happened."

"Where _is _your mother?" Robin wants to know. He's speaking to himself, for the most part, in a completely rhetorical fashion, but it doesn't escape his attention the bashful way Henry is suddenly kicking up invisible lint from the carpet.

But before he can further pursue this line of questioning, a piece of the egg suddenly splits off, one of the gilded whorls, and a gooey black spindly thing begins to emerge unsteadily in its place. There's a shiny webbed cape-like structure appended to it, and then something else comes poking out, what looks to be a long snout with small slits for nostrils, sniffing experimentally and sending puffs of smoke out with each breath, followed by two gleaming, yellow globes for eyes.

"Is that a—" Robin starts, as the little creature suddenly hiccups fire.

Yes. It most certainly is.

He casts a sidelong glance at Emma, whose eyes have gone impossibly round. Her level of astonishment somewhat reassures him, until she breathes out, "I only half-believed her when she told me this was going to happen!", and he finally feels his patience wearing as thin as the bits of eggshell now breaking off hither thither and dusting the carpet in shards of cobalt blue.

The one woman he would've thought most determined to explain to him why he ought to expect the fucking birth of a mystical beast to occur in their living room, and in the middle of the bloody night, is apparently the one woman he can count on _not_ to be here; and what's more, he's beginning to suspect this isn't the only thing she's been hiding from him, and his heart twists at the realization, each beat a painful contortion of the knot that grows in his chest.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he takes a steady, calming breath in and out. There must be a perfectly bland and reasonable explanation for all of this…whatever this is, he's absolutely sure of it, but gods if he can't think what it could possibly be, and the not knowing drives him near to the brink of madness.

Emma senses his growing frustration and shares a knowing look with Henry. "I think Robin deserves a night out, don't you, kid?" she asks pointedly, and the lad nods, tells him where his other mom is, where she has been, every evening for more days than Robin would like to count.

He's collecting his coat and keys when he glances hesitantly back at the odd company standing in his living room. Emma is carefully lifting her brother from his basinet while Henry and Roland crowd around the critter as it finally breaks completely free of its egg home, then wobbles on gangly legs, sneezing more fire and letting out a pitiful squawking sound. He sees his boy reaching for the animal, about to pet it as though it were about as harmless as a puppy.

"Roland," says Robin, a little too sharply, "don't—" But he stops abruptly when the small animal lifts a clumsy talon and places it gently into his son's palm.

"Go," Emma urges him, bobbing Neal up in and down in her arms. "We'll take care of the little guy. Well." And she chuckles, gives a rueful shake of her head. "All the little guys."

Robin smiles gratefully and drags his coat on. He's darting through the door when he hears Emma behind him, "I think this beats having a pet reindeer, kid," and neither he nor Henry can help but agree.

.

.

.

He's only been to The Rabbit Hole a handful of times, the last of which had ended on such a spectacularly poor note that Charming and Killian had had to drag him home feet first. Granted, he'd been suffering from some considerable heartache at the time, brought on by the absence of one particularly regal woman from his life, so it only seems fitting that he return to it now.

The bell above the door gives a ring as he opens it, but the sound is drowned out by the delightful ambience of drunken chatter and of beer mugs clinking together in toast after toast after toast. The smell of incense and cigarette smokes suffocates the air around him, and he's grimacing as he spots a familiar figure onstage, clad head to toe in black leather with splashes of red collar peeking out from a deep neckline.

Killian is bent forward with a silver round object to his lips that seems to be amplifying the sound of his voice (what is that blasted thing called again? Microphone, that's it), and he is…singing. Crooning, really. Dark, expertly lined eyes squeezed tightly shut, hook dragging down at the low V of his shirt, the pirate's face contorts with the emotional fortitude behind a series of lyrics that Robin recognizes for what they are if not the melody itself.

Smiling in spite of himself, he scans the crowd, and that's when he sees them, seated at the bar counter.

Mr. Gold has his head in one hand, a tumbler full of what looks to be scotch clutched in the other, and Regina, his Regina, has a tentative palm on his shoulder as she speaks determinedly, passionately into his ear. Robin can't read the words that tumble from her lips at breakneck speed, but he doesn't miss the way Mr. Gold's shoulders shake in response, how his hand drags over his eyes, the awkward pat Regina is giving him now.

He thinks of Belle, haggard and silent every morning when he drops Roland off at the library before heading to the sheriff's department. From what he's gathered, having lent a sympathetic ear to her whenever she's feeling inclined to share, she still holds the dagger (has even been experimenting with it, trying to break it free of it secrets), but even without it in her possession she will no longer allow Rumplestiltskin anywhere near her.

And he thinks of his own marital misfortunes, of Marian, now living in a nearby town known as Boston, and quite contentedly at that, as far as he can tell based off their brief but frequent conversing by phone; most recently, they'd been making the proper arrangements for Roland to spend the holidays with her, after helping his papa celebrate his thirty-something birthday. (He'd grumbled about it—honestly, what's the use of birthdays after having spent half of them under some curse that stopped time—but she'd told him firmly that was entirely Roland's decision, not his.)

He thinks of Belle and of Marian, and he hopes the best for them both, knows it's what they both deserve; because more than most people, he has faith that things _will _always work out when they're supposed to do, in the end.

He regards his own happy ending now, watches with a ridiculous smile on his face as she wrangles a lock of hair behind her ear, that same lock that he's always tugging on, and his frustration melts away as his heart swells at the sight of her biting her lip, frowning pensively at Mr. Gold's sobbing form. And even if she needs to spend every evening of the foreseeable future talking this imp off his self-imposed ledge, it's all right, because Robin knows she will always come home to him, and he will always be there, waiting for her.

And how many people ever get to be so lucky as they?

"Come on, Rumplestiltskin," Killian is addressing his once-enemy, now—well, perhaps "friend" is still too generous of a word for their tenuous dynamic, Robin thinks—now frenemy (a word Henry had been all too amused to teach him), as the song fades and he places the microphone back onto its stand. "What do you say you give it a go tonight, mate? Even the Evil Queen has been known to grace this stage with her presence a time or two." He winks at Regina, who makes an unpleasant face at him.

"Crocodile, don't tell me I've fondly dubbed these little therapy sessions as 'villain karaoke night' for no reason," the pirate continues as he jumps gracefully off the stage and makes his way over to the bar. "Sing for us. It might do your world of hurt a world of good."

"I'll sing," the words are out before Robin can stop them, and Regina perks up at the sound of his voice even before she's turned around to see him standing there. Her smile blinds him, faltering for a second as her eyes cloud with guilt, but he's smiling back, can't seem to stop, and her lips tug into something more playful, teasing, and perhaps slightly stunned, as he heads for the steps to the stage.

"What's the matter, one arrow wonder?" Leroy is calling from his position at the pool table. "Olaf just not doing it for you tonight?" He chuckles boisterously at his own joke, takes a hearty swig from his pale ale.

"Don't tell me you haven't dreamed about this moment, Leroy," Robin calls to him as he steps onto the stage.

"Being serenaded by Robin Hood?" the dwarf snorts. "What do you take me for, a love-struck queen?" But he looks suspiciously misty-eyed as Robin pulls the microphone into his hand.

His singing voice is rusty, has been little used since the days he and his Merry Men told tales around campfires, bathed in rivers and used pinecones for money (he smirks at the thought, directs it Regina's way). But the words seems to have its intended effect (_my gift is my song, and this one's for you_), and she's swaying slightly on her feet, her hands brought up over her mouth, and her eyes, her eyes are the brightest that he's ever seen them.

_I hope you don't mind. I hope you don't mind that I put down in words—how wonderful life is, now you're in the world._

"I'm sorry, Robin," she starts to say as she greets him at the bottom of the stage, but he takes her into her arms and kisses her apology away, pulling her close at the waist.

"The only thing you ought to be apologizing for, milady," he murmurs into her ear as they part, "is how much you've made me miss you the last few days you've been gone."

"I've missed you too," she whispers, as someone nearby makes a purposeful retching sound, and another a catcall. She hums out a laugh but pointedly ignores looking Leroy and Killian's way as she brings her palms to Robin's chest, rubs there in slow circles. "Maybe I can…make it up to you?" She waggles her eyebrows. "When we get home?"

He is in wholehearted agreement, until he recalls exactly what state he'd left home in on his way to the bar.

"Regina, we need to talk about—" and he lowers his voice to a whisper in an attempt to discourage the others from glancing over too curiously in their direction, "the, ah, dragon, that's in our living room at the moment."

Her hands still, her eyes widen. "Already?" she gasps. "But it's a week early!"

"Too early for what, exactly?" he's about to ask, but opts to stammer instead, "and…I assume you were planning to tell me, at some point, before said week had passed?"

"Well, of course not," she tells him with a frown. "That would've ruined the surprise."

He gives her a look, because clearly it is too late for that, and she sighs.

"It was supposed to be your birthday present from Roland," she admits.

"For—me?" he gasps. "The dragon…is for me."

She arches an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me you don't _want _it to be for you? Because I can think of a certain teenage boy who would be more than happy to take it off your hands. Or your own son, for that matter."

"Well, no," Robin confesses, "it's bloody fantastic, but it's not exactly what I had in mind when we'd originally discussed suitable pets for Roland. For one thing, I don't believe it's possible to domesticate a dragon."

"Good thing it's not meant for Roland, then," says Regina dismissively. "Besides, it's a miniature breed. They never get much bigger than a small pony"—_A perfectly reasonable size_, he comments wryly—"and they are actually really obedient and well-behaved, with proper disciplining."

He's skeptical—"Contrary to what that movie might suggest, life is not _How to Train Your Dragon_, Regina" (she's endlessly amused, declares that it's actually pretty damn close, and _You've been busy brushing up on your cartoon movies, I see_)—until something occurs to him. "Hang on," he says suddenly, "how did you know about my birthday?"

She smirks, hand traveling down his back where it's leaning against the bar counter now, grabs his ass, gives it a light squeeze. "Guess I'm not the only one who's been hiding something."

"Vixen," he mutters, hand tightening its grip at her hip.

"Speaking of," she continues thoughtfully, gesturing up at the stage, "what other hidden talents do you have?"

"Take me home and I'll show you," he murmurs into her skin under the pretext of placing a chaste kiss there, and then, more seriously, "I _am _proud of you, Regina. For helping him."

"Trying to help, anyway," she mutters, reaching for her keys on the bar counter, when Rumplestiltskin lifts his blotchy, tear-streaked face up at them.

"What have I told you all along about villains and their happy endings, dearie?" but it lacks the spritely air, the bite, of his usual impish self. "Just because you got yours for now doesn't mean it will last. We're the epitome of lost causes." He looks from Regina to his other side at Killian, who's flagging down the bartender. "You two may have convinced me not to run this godforsaken town to the ground, at least for today—but a good and honest man out of me, you will never be able to make." He breaks down. "Not even Belle had the power to do that."

Regina huffs out a sigh. "That's because it's not up to Belle, Gold. It's up to you."

"I don't need your pitying remarks, Regina," he spits out, and Robin lays a subconscious hand on the handle of the blade he keeps on his person at all times. "You wouldn't have nearly as much room for forgiveness in your heart if you knew all the things I've done."

"I suppose it depends on what you've done," Regina replies calmly. "But I'd argue that it's not my forgiveness you should be working toward right now."

The man shakes his head. "If you knew," he repeats, "if you knew," and then he can't go on.

Robin and Regina exchange a look.

"Well, when you're ready to talk about it, I'll be here," she tells Gold.

"As will I," Robin says, giving Regina's hand a squeeze, and the smile she gives him is worth a thousand miniature breeds of dragon, in his opinion.

"Right. Off you two go then," Killian shoos them off, slapping a hearty hand across Rumple's back. "I've got Bae's father covered for the rest of the night. You two go off and enjoy what's left of yours." He nods to Robin, who tilts his head gratefully in response.

"If he doesn't behave, we can always set Norbert on him," Robin reasons as they walk out hand in hand, the air a pleasant chill after the stuffy, humid atmosphere of the bar.

"Norbert," she's snorting, looking amused but not terribly surprised, when his phone goes off with a ping. He retrieves it from his back pocket, wondering if something has happened at home, if it'll still be intact or up in flames by the time they get back.

"It's a text from Belle," he says in surprise, sliding his finger across the screen to view it.

_We need to talk._

"Cryptic," Regina comments when he shows it to her, and before he's even lifted a thumb to hack out a response his phone dings again with another message.

_It's about the dagger. And Zelena._


End file.
